


i'll unfold before you

by sameboots



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Brienne of Tarth is a pugilistic spinster, F/M, First Time, Jaime Lannister is an artist for Reasons, flagrant refusal to worry about earthbound historical accuracies, flagrant use of the word quim, hopefully this is erotic, quasi-regency, there's a lot of waxing poetic about asymmetry and color stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sameboots/pseuds/sameboots
Summary: In which our heroes are in a quasi-Regency Westeros. Jaime is an artist hired to paint a portrait of Brienne for her betrothed Ser Ronnet Connington before they're to marry. Brienne has an unusual request for him. Jaime has an unexpected fascination with her.--Miss Tarth's mouth firms into an unhappy, white line before she looks away from him, gazing out the window at the pale grey December sunlight. Jaime can’t help but imagine the palette he might create: rich blues for the startling gaze; pale yellows for the plainly styled hair; murky, deep greys for the dour silk she’s wrapped in. He thinks he would focus on the play of her plush mouth and soft eyes and how they are so at odds with the crooked line of her nose and stubborn chin.She breathes out and turns her face to his once more. “Will you--” she pauses and swallows thickly. “Will you make certain that I look as unappealing as possible?”Jaime has no idea how to respond to such a request. He’s been asked to erase pockmarks, make bosoms fuller, lips softer, waists smaller, but he’s never, not once, been asked to make someone look more unattractive.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 104
Kudos: 362





	i'll unfold before you

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:
> 
> 1) If the beginning of this story is VERY familiar, it's because it was originally posted as a series of tumblr prompt fills back in October, I think. I shelved it in favor of finishing other projects. However, a friend requested a very specific prompt a week ago and suddenly I had 10,000 words and another ~10k outlined and ready to be written. My muse is the _worst_.
> 
> 2) I have a flagrant disregard for Regency England in terms of peerage, etc. Westeros is not England and whatever period this is, it's not _technically_ Regency. Imagine the same general vibe, furniture, clothing, but don't expect me to put a lot of research into particulars. If that's going to be a sticking point, I can only encourage you to back out now. 
> 
> 3) You will realize very shortly that Jaime goes by Mr. Hill in this half of the story, I _promise_ , in the second half of the story this will make perfect sense in regard to the narrative. I only ask that you trust me a _little bit_ to explain myself. 
> 
> 4) Uh. Enjoy?

Jaime’s not sure what he expected, but whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t a woman taller than him and uglier than any woman he’s ever seen. She does herself no favors by scowling and sneering through their first meeting.

“I will match what your client agreed to pay you for the piece,” she says emphatically, cheeks flushed ruddy in uneven splotches.

“Milady, with all due respect,” Jaime says, “my living is my art. It only takes one failure to ruin the tenuous reputation I’ve built. Painting you may well be the difference between a hot meal and starvation. I rather prefer the meal.”

Her mouth firms into an unhappy, white line before she looks away from him, gazing out the window at the pale grey December sunlight. Jaime can’t help but imagine the palette he might create: rich blues for the startling gaze; pale yellows for the plainly styled hair; murky, deep greys for the dour silk she’s wrapped in. He thinks he would focus on the play of her plush mouth and soft eyes and how they are so at odds with the crooked line of her nose and stubborn chin.

She breathes out and turns her face to his once more. “Will you--” she pauses and swallows thickly. “Will you make certain that I look as unappealing as possible?”

Jaime has no idea how to respond to such a request. He’s been asked to erase pockmarks, make bosoms fuller, lips softer, waists smaller, but he’s never, not once, been asked to make someone look more unattractive.

“You could focus on the crook in my nose,” she suggests as if there’s nothing strange about her request. “My waist is rather thick and my jaw is quite masculine. If you focus--”

“Milady,” Jaime interrupts her. “I’m not certain I understand.”

“Your client is Ser Ronnet Connington, is it not?”

“Yes,” he says. “How did you know?”

She sighs and glances down at her hands where they’re folded in her lap. They’re incongruously delicate, pale and soft with long, elegant fingers.

“Our fathers informally agreed to betroth us when I was a child,” she explains quietly, not meekly, but nearly inaudible all the same. “I was not a beautiful child, but I certainly was not what I am now.” She lifts her eyes to his and the open honesty in her expression nearly steals the breath from his lungs. “Even disregarding that fact, Ser Ronnet is not a good man. I have no wish to marry a man of his sort, nor do I wish for such a man to humiliate my father by appearing here and reacting as we both know he will at the sight of me.”

“You want me to make you seem so appalling that he will cry off without even stepping foot in Evenfall?”

“It’s not as if it would be a falsehood.” She shrugs, a decent show of indifference on her face. “In point of fact, I’m asking you to err on the side of honesty. Surely you’re accustomed to indulging the vanity of others; this is merely the other side of the same coin.”

He is. He’s very well-accustomed to smudging away imperfections and exaggerating lovelier features.

Still, there is something about this quiet, blunt woman that makes him rankle at the idea of insulting both her being and his skills.

Her gaze sharpens when he fails to respond.

“It would be a service to me,” she says. Then more firmly adds, “I will pay you double Ser Ronnet’s fee.”

It has been a lean year for Jaime and while Ser Ronnet’s offer wasn’t insulting, it would also do little more than fill his stomach for the next few months. If Miss Tarth were to double it...it wouldn’t be life-changing, but it would certainly make his next several months comfortable.

He looks at her carefully. It wouldn’t take much exaggeration, she was correct in that respect. Her face is crudely shaped, as if painted with a palette knife rather than brushes, and by an amateur at that. But there is more to her face than broad strokes; her cheeks are tinged the palest of pinks, her lips bitten a tempting shade of red, her eyes a dark enough blue so as to seem purple at times. All of this to say nothing of the endless expanse of creamy, perfect skin above the neckline and below the capped sleeves of her gown.

He knows the exact shades of pink, white, and the light brown to recreate that complexion.

“I accept,” he says, suddenly hungry to paint this study in contradictions, the bizarre interplay of hard and soft, beautiful and ugly, shadow and light. He can’t tear his eyes away as he finds himself saying, “On one condition.”

She narrows her eyes at him but gestures for him to continue.

“You won’t view the piece until it’s complete.” At the surprise on her face, he explains, “Subjects always believe they know the result by seeing the parts. I do not appreciate the commentary before the piece is finished.”

“I accept.”

She searches his face for a moment and then the softest of smiles touches her lips and he feels it like a slap. The smug satisfaction is somehow charming on her face. Perhaps it’s that the expression doesn’t look etched into her features or perhaps it’s simply that the smile and satisfaction make her eyes all but twinkle.

He looks forward to this, to slowly unwinding whatever it is that leaves him feeling that he’s only seeing her through a hazy glass. To discovering who this odd woman is and finding a way to capture it her on a canvas, if such a thing is possible.

She rises to escort him out with a promise to be available every day from lunch until tea.

When they reach the door, some ridiculous instinct has him taking her hand and bowing to press his lips to the soft skin. She snatches her hand away, a blush stealing from her cheeks down her neck and disappearing beneath the muslin of her dress. Her hand twitches and for a moment he thinks she may strike him.

Instead, she takes a large step away and says, “Until tomorrow.”

It is clearly a dismissal and yet he almost skips down the steps, unable to keep the smile from his face.

\--

Jaime arrives precisely on time the next day, canvas and paints in hand. Miss Tarth guides him into a drawing room, gossamer curtains drawn so that the perfect afternoon sun bursts through the window.

“Will this be adequate lighting?” she asks him briskly. “It does face west, if that makes a difference. I’m afraid our east-facing rooms don’t have the same abundance of windows.”

Jaime moves in a semi-circle, pretending to gauge the sunlight, but paying more mind to the statue of a woman standing board-straight in the center of the room.

“This should do well,” he says.

“Where would you like me?”

He looks up to find her glaring at him, nearly indignant already, as if his presumption in following through on a contract is of the utmost offense.

“There,” he points to the divan, “I need the light to hit you as directly as possible.”

She sits on the bench, spine straight and hands clasped in her lap. He looks at her critically, judging the worst angle for her to sit at. After all, he is a man of his word. In response, her chin lifts and her nostrils flare.

“Turn your face to the wall,” he says. She faces her left. “Now the other way,” he says. He walks over to her. He lifts his hand and lets it hover near her face, “May I?”

She looks at him, surprise in her eyes before she shutters her expression and nods sharply. She flinches at the first touch of his fingers on her jaw as he gently turns her head to the precise angle that will show the crook of her nose, the jut of her chin and unstylishly full mouth. He hums as continues to tilt her face to the perfect place. Finally, with one tip of her chin, he’s satisfied.

He backs away slowly and when she moves as if to look at him, he all but shouts, “Stay.”

Her jaw tightens, an angry flush blossoming on her cheeks, but she doesn’t move.

He keeps an eye on her as he sets up; the canvas on an easel, his palette laden with white, grey, purple and pink for the first day. First, though, he chooses a charcoal to sketch out the vague shapes of her form, how she’ll be placed on the canvas. It’s no longer strange the way a human form becomes a series of curves and angles, less a person and more an object of study.

Somehow though, she becomes more real the longer he studies her. She’s no longer simply an eyesore of a woman, she’s a collection of circles and lines and curves at odd angles. There’s a lack of symmetry to her features that should bother him. Instead, it only makes him want to look longer and more carefully, as if trying to decipher why he doesn’t _want_ to look away.

He thinks from this angle, he needn’t exaggerate any of her features. It’s readily apparent she’s no beauty, not even a woman that would be labeled as handsome by the kinder parts of society. Her nose is at least twice-broken, her lips nearly vulgar. To say nothing of her jaw, broader than Jaime’s own, her chin blunt and square.

The Gods were not kind to her, except in the case of her eyes. He wonders if she angers when people compliment them. They must be the only thing for which she hears a kind word as regards her appearance. Even the expanses of creamy skin are marred by a dusting of freckles.

Still, as he begins to shade the rough shapes into something more resembling a person, defining where the light is brightest and the shadows deepest, he finds himself transfixed by the play of muscle beneath that milky complexion.

It’s as he’s shading the shape of her arms that he realizes -- she isn’t shaped like a woman that plays the piano or stitches neat silk flowers. She’s shaped like a man who is more accustomed to an epee in his hand than dueling pistol.

He must stop without even realizing it; suddenly he is pinned in place with her sharp stare.

“Have you finished already?” she asks, a nearly judgmental tone to the question.

He swallows and resists the urge to quickly swirl a brush through the paints until he achieves something even marginally near the shocking color of her eyes. He wants to create something from that color; a sea roiling angrily, fighting against the boundaries of the world, demanding more space, the right to consume all it hungers for.

“Sir?”

Her question is like a slap, startling him out of his reverie. “No, milady.” He looks away and clears his throat, gathering his thoughts before looking back up. “Please try to resume the position I placed you in.”

She narrows her eyes briefly but turns her face away from him. It’s like he can finally breathe deeply again once she’s no longer looking at him.

Time passes more quickly after that; hours later the afternoon will seem murky, lost in the haze of concentration on the very beginnings of a piece and learning the subject well enough to capture them. When the maid finally interrupts to alert Miss Tarth that tea will soon be prepared, Jaime blinks as if he’s coming awake after a long nap.

“Thank you, Joy.”

The maid bobs a curtsy and quietly exits.

Miss Tarth stands, rising so fluidly it’s fascinating. She’s broad like a man and just as strong, judging by the strength of her arms, yet she moves as gracefully as any woman. It unsettles him somewhere deep inside, a quiet quiver that’s naught more than the ripple of a pebble dropped in a pond, but it’s there.

“I will escort you out, Mr.Hill.”

“No need, Miss Tarth.” He smiles at her, the easy, languorous charm descending like a mask. “I know my way.”

He steps close enough to take her hand once more, the flesh cool against his warm palm. He bows quickly to place a soft kiss against her knuckles, his mouth perhaps a bit more open than entirely proper.

Miss Tarth doesn’t snatch her hand away this time, but she does blush the prettiest of delicate rose pinks on the apples of her cheeks.

“Until tomorrow,” he says quietly and departs before she responds.

\--

More than anything, Brienne had dreaded the man’s eyes upon her.

People do not look at Brienne. People see her flaws and titter or they glance and then avoid looking directly at her.

But this man, this artist, stares at her with nothing more than objective appraisal in his expression. It’s a very queer feeling. The first day had been difficult, waiting on tenterhooks for the biting comment on her appearance, some flaw that he picked from the sea of possibilities.

Yet, he had done nothing but peer at her and sketch and when he’d left, pressed a nearly scandalous open-mouthed kiss to her knuckles. It didn’t do to dwell upon the fact that he was the first man to treat her as if she were some delicate maiden.

It’s now been a sennight and he still comes every day after lunch, he waits for her to seat herself in the appropriate position and then works for the arduous three hours until tea. He bows and kisses her hand as he leaves, though, never quite as intimately as the first day.

They don’t speak. 

She is loath to break his concentration, lest the entire project take even longer.

Her face is mostly turned away from him, thankfully. She’s not sure she could bear to look at his face day after day for hours. He is, unfortunately, the most handsome man she’s ever seen. He has the bearing and looks of a god. His hair falls in gentle golden waves, perhaps too long to be stylish, but soft enough she finds she wants to touch and run her fingers through it. His eyes are the deep, shining green of an emerald; his skin nearly as golden as his hair; his fingertips stained with paint and charcoal.

That she dreams about the gentle pressure of his fingers on her jaw from that very first day is not worth considering in the daylight.

\--

“I need to begin your body today,” he says, still standing when she’s positioned herself on the pink velvet of the divan.

She blushes a shade of red that she knows will stain her chest as if she has spilled wine down her front.

There’s an expression on his face that she can’t read, doesn’t want to read. He doesn’t speak to what that expression is, instead, he merely says, “Can you extend your feet further toward the door? It will show how tall you are.”

She doesn’t scowl. She asked for him to make her look her worst, even worse than she may actually be, so it shouldn’t bother her that he wants to emphasize her freakish height. She does as he asks and looks away as she feels his gaze travel from her toes to her face.

“And your arm--”

He touches her. His fingers are a soft warm pressure against the cool skin of her elbow as he lightly grips and pulls the arm forward.

She sucks a shocked breath into her lungs when his fingertips trail from her elbow to her wrist. Her heart beats a frantic rhythm in her chest. It’s pathetic to be so affected by the simplest of touches from a man who has little more interest in her than he would any inanimate object.

She may as well be a particularly large vase.

Even so, reminding herself of these facts does nothing to calm her throbbing pulse. He guides her hand by her wrist to rest near her right thigh. She thanks the old gods and the new that he does not touch her leg, she’s not sure she would retain her dignity.

He lets go and her hand falls delicately to the dove grey silk of her dress.

“Can you clench your fist for me?” he asks softly.

Startled by the unexpected question, she turns her head only to find his face too near her own. She is grateful that at least at first, his eyes are trained on her upper-arm. He must sense her gaze, however, because he looks up.

They’re so near that should anyone see them, it would seem terribly scandalous.

Like… well, like lovers interrupted.

“I’m sorry?” she whispers, hoping he will ignore her shaking voice.

“As if you mean to punch someone.” And then, light as a feather, he touches the curve of muscle just below her sleeve. Goosebumps flood every inch of her skin.

She looks down at her hand, desperate to break the strange tension between them, and clenches her fist, thinking how satisfying it would be to hit something until she could forget the pleasure of his touch. Still, she can’t quite prevent the gasp when he traces the bulge of the tense muscle. She whips her head to stare at him, but he seems transfixed by her arm.

It’s odd. There isn’t the slightest amount of disgust on his features. Brienne has seen such an expression turned her way only too often, she would recognize it if it were there. No, he simply seems to be looking. Taking her in as no one has ever done.

After a moment that feels suspended in time, he lifts his eyes once more, catching her own. “Perfect,” he says, a satisfied tilt to his mouth as he moves his hand away and retreats to his canvas.

“You can relax your hand, but please don’t move your arm,” he says, as he retrieves his supplies. “I will need you to make a fist when I begin shading your arm, but that will be a while yet.”

She is never more grateful than when he takes his seat and begins sketching, his stare more focused on his canvas than on her and her own can be turned toward the far wall or window once more.

\--

Jaime arrives on time only to be told by Miss Tarth’s maid, Joy, that she’s still out. He hasn’t known her long, but he’s fairly certain Miss Tarth is not the sort to be late to anything. He tries to take comfort in the fact that Joy doesn’t seem concerned, though why he should feel anything in particular about her location is beyond his comprehension.

“You may wait in the parlor, Mr. Hill,” Joy says, a soft comely smile on her face.

Jaime takes the opportunity to set up his easel and prepare the paints he’ll need for today’s session: creams and pinks and the smallest amount of pale brown, meant to convey the spray of freckles down her arms. He’s nearly finished when the door opens. He glances up, expecting to see Joy with offers of refreshments. Instead, there is a tall, broad figure, drenched from head to toe, clad in a dress that was likely a pale blue when dry.

It is not dry.

“Miss Tarth?” Jaime asks.

It’s an inane question. The woman standing in the door is clearly Miss Tarth. However, the thin muslin of her dress is plastered to her body and--and translucent enough so that he can see exactly how long her legs are, the precise slight curve of her hip, the small swell of her breasts. She looks up from removing her gloves, her expression shocked.

Her already thin, straw-colored hair is clumped into wet strings around her face. Her features are helped not at all by being drained of color from the cold. Her too-large mouth, still dark pink, looks even more incorrect on her face.

She drops her gloves.

“Mr. Hill,” she stutters.

She seems frozen in place, staring at him with eyes like a startled fawn. Except instead of a black void, hers are a fathomless blue, and unlike her mouth, they’re only made more hypnotic by being so starkly framed with rain-damp lashes and milky skin.

Her hands pull at her dress where it clings to her legs, as if playing at modesty when there’s none to be found. His eyes trail down her, his mind immediately wondering at the pastel colors he could swirl to capture her. A siren washed upon the land, not beautiful, but enticing all the same.

His mouth goes dry, his tongue a heavy weight when his gaze reaches her breasts, her nipples hardened against the soaked pale bodice of her dress. She gasps and makes as if to cross her arms over her chest as she stutters, “Please, excuse me.”

\--

He considers leaving. Simply packing up and disappearing. If only so he can retreat to the room he’s let at the disrepute lodging house several streets away. That he will ruin his meagre supplies hardly seems important when he can’t seem to clear the sight of Brienne’s pert nipples from his mind. He wonders if they’re a pink pale enough that they’re barely noticeable until aroused or if they’re the same dark pink of her lips.

He wonders what noises she would make if he were to scrape his teeth across them.

The first blush of arousal stirs in his gut, warming him and warning him in near equal measure.

It’s only the inarguable truth that he desperately needs the commission from this piece that keeps him for dashing back to his rooms and stroking his cock until the image of Miss Tarth’s body is washed from his mind.

Still, he’s somewhat surprised when Miss Tarth reappears, clad once again in a dour grey that makes her look as if she’s in mourning. He realizes that she wears it on purpose and has since their first meeting. She has at least one pale blue dress; he can only imagine it brings out the brilliance of her eyes.

He rises to his feet and nods. “Miss Tarth.” When he looks her in the eye, her cheeks immediately flush a delicate rose shade. “I’m pleased you’ve come back.”

“Of course, Mr. Hill,” she says, her tone as cool as her cheeks are hot. “You have a painting to finish.”

“Of course,” he agrees, schooling his face so that his amusement doesn’t show. He gestures to the divan. “I’m ready to start when you are.”

She nods and walks stiffly to the divan, seating herself in the now-familiar position. Except, this time, when her back curves just so, her neck lengthening as she tilts her chin the way he’s shown her, all he can think about is what it would be like to paint her whole body. 

He wonders if the freckles dot her breasts and stomach, as well. He can’t ignore the aching curiosity to know what color the thatch of hair between her thighs is, and the exact shade of pink her quim flushes under his gaze.

He has no idea how long he’s been staring, but long enough that she turns to look at him. Her eyes and the pale arch of her brow are like a punch to the gut.

“Mr. Hill?”

“My apologies, Miss Tarth.”

He clears his throat, retrieves his palette, and begins to paint.

Somewhere in the haze of brush strokes and oils in which he always loses himself, he begins mixing a different hue of pink from what he uses on her mouth. This one has a tinge of orange that turns the pink a pale coral, to which he adds the faintest touches of brown. _Too dark_. He gradually adds white until it approaches the tint he’s imagining. 

“ _Mr. Hill_?”

“Mmm?” he hums absently, thoughtfully comparing the two hues of pink he’s created. 

“You’ve been staring at your paints for a worrisome length of time.”

“I’ve been contemplating the hue of your nipples,” he murmurs, “whether they match your lips or if they’re closer to the shade of your freckles.”

He doesn’t realize what he’s said until Miss Tarth makes a choked noise. He looks up to find her wide-eyed, one hand fisting her skirt, the other pressed firmly to the seat. His stomach sinks. 

There’s no chance in all seven hells she’ll allow him to finish the piece and she certainly won’t pay him his fee. It will be a lean several months until he can find new work, ones in which he’ll have to accustom himself once more to the wonders of porridge. 

“Miss Tarth, I cannot apologize enough for my egregious behavior,” he says. “It is beyond the pale. I will take my leave--”

A short, quick rap at the door is all that proceeds Joy. 

“Miss Tarth, tea will be served shortly.”

“Thank you, Joy.” 

Joy curtsies before quitting the room, closing the door softly behind her. 

“I believe that’s my cue,” Jaime says. “I won’t impose my presence upon you anymore.”

Miss Tarth rises from her seat, a still shaken expression on her face. “I will see you tomorrow, Mr. Hill,” she says firmly. “I expect you to arrive at the usual time.”

“As you will,” he says with a short bow, confusion clouding his thoughts. 

He doesn’t take her hand as he leaves this time.

She doesn’t escort him to the door.

\--

Brienne thinks to ignore it. No one has ever spoken to her in such a manner; however, Mr. Hill has seemed genuinely mortified and apologetic, not to mention that as an artist he likely spends time with women of ill repute who wouldn’t so much as blink at such language. 

The next day, he is the same as ever, quietly working, only peering at her in the same remote way that makes her like nothing more interesting than a landscape. The same the day after and the day after that and…

She knows she should forget what he said, that it was more likely than not a slip of the tongue, but she cannot. It simmers beneath her skin every time she locks eyes with him, every time he bids her farewell with his low, careful voice and soft expression. 

It plagues her, wondering if he—wondering _why_. She remembers the ways he’s traced the swells and shallows of her muscles, the gentle pressure of his fingertips when he tilts her chin. She can’t erase the look in his eyes when he saw her soaked to the bone and frigid; she doesn’t quite know what his expression meant, but she’s fairly certain it wasn’t disinterest. 

—

“Mr. Hill,” Brienne says, trying to keep her voice from quaking. It’s been a sennight since the incident and they’ve spoken little since. 

“Miss Tarth?” 

When she turns from her position to look at him, he still looks faintly surprised that she’s addressing him. 

“I—” she purses her mouth. “You will have to excuse me. This is an uncomfortable topic and I have little experience with it.” 

“Of course,” he says, a furrow forming between his brows. 

She takes a deep, shaky breath. 

“Your comment,” she says, her voice weak and reedy despite her best attempts to sound unaffected, “regarding the colors of—of certain aspects of my _anatomy_ ,” she finishes awkwardly, incapable of using the same language Mr. Hill had.

“Again, I cannot apologize enough—”

Brienne lifts a hand to stop him. 

“Please do not interrupt or I shan’t ever manage to say what I feel I must, if only for my sake,” she says quickly. She drops her gaze to her hands, unable to keep from twisting her fingers together. “Were you curious because I am so odd that you wonder if I am a woman beneath my clothing?” 

“Good gods,” Mr. Hill breathes, sounding so shocked she has to look at him. “No, that is not why.” 

“It is because I am so freakish that you would like to have proof that I truly exist as I am and not as some trick of underpinnings and clothing?” 

“No,” he says firmly. 

“Then why? I presume you have painted many prettier women in various states of undress…”

“It would not be appropriate—”

“I am asking you directly,” she interrupts him, manners be damned. “I won’t terminate our arrangement for a bit of requested honesty.”

Mr. Hill stares at her for a long moment, his grass green eyes nearly looking through her as if trying to find deception in her assurances. 

“You are unique,” he says quietly. “I have never met a woman like you. You needn’t make that sour expression, I don’t say it to be cruel. I...I was intrigued before, but seeing you come in from the rain—your complexion is fascinating as it is, but I was suddenly plagued with the thought of how long your legs are, of wondering if you are freckled _everywhere_ or merely where the sun kisses your skin. I have seen many a nude woman, but I have never seen one I could compare to you. 

“I want to see you, all of you,” he says finally, his voice thick. “It is as simple as that.” 

She can feel her heartbeat from her tongue to her toes. 

“Thank you,” she says faintly, feeling detached from her own body. 

He nods. She resumes the position and he begins painting once more. 

He does kiss her knuckles when he leaves, for the first time since the incident. 

—

That night, after she dismisses Joy, she pulls her gown over her head once more and moves to stand in front of her mirror with her lamp in hand. The oil lamp casts her body in a warm, orange-yellow light that gives her more color than she ever has in the day. 

She doesn’t have a beautiful or feminine body, this she has always known. Her waist is not narrow, her breasts do not swell above her corsets to fill her bodices and threaten to overflow at the slightest provocation. She is too tall, taller than nearly every man she’s ever met. Taller even than Mr. Hill and at least thrice as ugly. 

She thinks about what her Septa always told her to expect from marriage. That a man would only want her for her money and lands, that he would douse the lights because all women are much the same in the dark. She remembers the fear that sank like an anchor in her stomach as Septa Mordane told her of the pain and blood, the distasteful act and messy aftermath necessary to have children. 

She knows other women have whispered of pain or of pleasure depending on the man and if the man cares for you or not. 

She also knows no husband of hers will ever care for her pleasure, especially not one such as Ser Ronnet Connington if the rumors are to be believed. 

She thinks about Mr. Hill’s searching gaze, his pigment-stained fingers and gentle touches. She imagines what it would feel like if he pressed an open-mouthed kiss somewhere other than her knuckles and an unnerving warmth floods her stomach and lower. She can’t imagine that Ser Ronnet will care much if she is a maiden when she comes to his bed or not, so long as she doesn’t carry another man’s child in her belly. 

She doesn’t want distaste and pain to be the only thing she knows of life; disdain has been the only thing she’s known for so long, but it’s not what she sees in Mr. Hill’s expression when he looks at her and she wants. She wants and she thinks, possibly, she deserves something more than what society is willing to allow her. 

—

Brienne can only hope Mr. Hill doesn’t notice how nervous she is the entire session, the faint tremor she feels in every muscle in her body. 

“Mr. Hill,” Brienne says, hoping he can’t hear quite how deeply her voice is trembling. “I have a--a request for you.” 

“I am at your disposal, Miss Tarth,” Mr. Hill says easily, not looking up from packing his oils back in his box. 

“I am aware of--no, I know--oh, by the gods,” Brienne murmurs to herself.

That finally makes Mr. Hill turn his face to her, an eyebrow lifted, curiosity more than amusement lighting his normally sharp-eyed gaze. “Miss Tarth?”

Brienne clenches her fists and walks to stand near enough to him that she can speak quietly so that there’s no fear of one of the servants overhearing. 

“I know that if your portrait drives away Ser Ronnet, even if my father should find someone else willing to marry me for my inheritance, it will never be for love,” she says, dropping her eyes to the floral carpet. “I know that they will never look upon me favorably for my beauty or womanly skills.”

“Miss Tarth--”

She holds up a hand to stop him. “There’s no need for that, Mr. Hill. Truly, I am eight-and-twenty, a spinster in all but my father’s hopes.”

He still looks as if he wants to protest. She takes a step closer before he can say another word, trying to summon the courage to lay a hand on his arm and failing. 

“Whether my father manages to find a desperate man or not, there is one matter that I--I believe in which you may be able to _assist_ me,” she says haltingly.

“I’m not sure--”

Brienne lifts her eyes to meet his, swallowing back the fear that rises in her breast. 

“Pardon my presumption, but you have...bedded women, have you not?”

Mr. Hill startles at her question, both eyebrows shooting toward his hairline. “Excuse me, Miss Tarth, I believe I misheard you.”

“You did not,” she says. “ _Have_ you?”

“Have I?” he asks incredulously. “Have I bedded women?”

“Yes, Mr. Hill,” Brienne says, not caring if she sounds impatient. “Have you bedded women?”

“Well, yes. Of course,” he says, brow wrinkled.

She nods. “Would you--it’s only. You’ve--” she stutters to a stop, blinking, all of her carefully planned words getting caught in her throat. “You expressed an--an _interest_ in painting me nude.” The final word is barely audible.

He leans in, closing the already minuscule distance between them to whisper so that she can feel his breath, “Are you suggesting you would like to pose for me?”

She can’t help the shiver that races down her spine as gooseflesh rises along every inch of her skin. 

She turns her face so that her lips are nearly pressed to his ear. “It would be an exchange.”

He leans back to lift an eyebrow, wariness in the firm line of his mouth.

“Are you... _repulsed_ by me, Mr. Hill?”

“Good gods, no,” he says, sounding as if she punched him in the stomach, concern writ heavy across his face. “Why would you think that?”

“Most men are,” she says, mouth tilted in a rueful smile.

“Most men are fools,” he says flippantly, in that way all beautiful people can afford. 

“Be that as it may,” she murmurs quickly. “I have one request, but it is quite enormous.” He doesn’t say anything in response, merely waits for her patiently. “I should like to know… If I am to marry a man that disdains me or if I am to remain a spinster, I should like to know what the marriage bed _could_ be.” 

Astonished is the only appropriate word for the look on Mr. Hill’s face. 

“Miss Tarth--”

“I have thought of this often,” she says. “If I am to marry Ser Ronnet, if your painting is not enough to drive him away...I fear he will be... _unkind_. He will not want me, of that I am certain, nor, I fear, will any other gentleman. I don’t want a cruel man to be my only experience of what it means to be touched.”

Mr. Hill looks at her for so long she thinks she may need to tuck tail and quit the room before he has a chance to reject her. The pain of rejection never seems to fade, no matter how often it happens nor how old she is. 

“I have rooms at a lodging house in Flea Bottom,” he says. “It’s not safe for a lady to travel alone.”

“Not to point out the obvious, but I’m hardly as in danger as a normal woman. I am stronger than most men and a good bit taller.”

“Will any of my protests strike you as reason enough to stay away?” he asks bluntly.

“Only if you say you do not desire me,” she says plainly. “Or, at least, that you cannot or will not bed me.”

“The Wild Boar,” he says. “I’m on the first floor, third door on the left. I’m there every evening.”

She nods. “Let me escort you out, Mr. Hill.”

When they reach the door, he bows and kisses her hand. 

“Tomorrow evening,” she whispers. “I will make my excuses to Joy. She knows better than to question me too extensively.”

“Until then,” Mr. Hill agrees.

\--

Jaime opens the door to a nervous-looking Miss Tarth, statue-still and swathed in a dark grey wool overcoat. He can’t help but smile at the picture she makes, severe as a schoolmarm.

“Mr. Hill,” she greets him.

He huffs a laugh. “I really must insist you call me Jaime if we’re going to become more intimate.”

She blushes a deep pink. “I suppose you should call me Brienne.”

“Brienne,” he says, letting the name curl around his tongue. He watches her chest rise and fall at the sound of it. He steps aside, holding the door open for her to walk further in.

She glances around the small room, light scant due to the inadequate candles; it’s to be expected from a lodging house so cheap, but it doesn’t make him any less ashamed.

“May I take your coat?” he asks her.

She turns quickly, a look on her face as if she somehow forgot he was there. She does nothing more than nod, unbuttoning it before turning her back on him.

He helps her out of the coat and hangs it by the door, leaving her in a pale peach-colored dress, one he can already imagine draped over the deep green velvet stool near the bed, diaphanous against the lush fabric. He traces the neckline lightly, watching the pink flush rush from her hair, down her neck to meet the tip of his finger. 

“You should unlace me,” she says a bit breathlessly.

Tension twists in his stomach. “We can take this slowly,” he tells her, his voice tight. 

“No,” she says quickly. “No. I’m ready. There’s no point in delaying.”

He doubts the certainty of her words. “You may stop me at any time. I’m not a green boy desperate for his first experience. I won’t thank you for making me a cad or worse.” 

“I swear it,” she says. 

He takes a deep steadying breath, and reaches for the laces of her gown, loosening first the one at her neck and then the one below her breasts, letting the bodice hang loose around her shoulders. She shivers when he runs his fingers beneath the shoulder pushing it down her arms. He can feel the gooseflesh that rises in the wake of his touch. 

She shrugs the dress the rest of the way down, allowing it to pool at her feet, leaving her standing in her chemise and stays. He’s never undressed a woman without touching them first, taking the time arouse them until they’re aching with it, to the point of curving against him, until they’re pulling at his buttons and laces as fervently as he pulls at theirs. He finds he burns just as hot now, knowing he’s the first person outside of a maid to place his hands on Brienne’s laces. 

He unknots the strings and jerks to loosen them all the way down her back. He knows the sharp intake of breath isn’t because of the force of his pulls. 

“Turn?” he requests, his voice seeming to ricochet around the room even though he speaks barely above a whisper. 

She hesitates for a moment before turning to face him, a hesitant, almost frightened, expression on her face, as if she expects rejection _now_. She draws her lower lip between her teeth. He undoes the bows holding the shoulders of her stays to the bodice and lets it drop to the floor, his eyes focused on her own, keeping her with him even as her lips tremble. 

Jaime puts both of his hands at her hips, rucking the thin fabric of her chemise up until he can grip her waist, waiting for permission to keep going. Slowly, Brienne realizes what he’s waiting for and lifts her arms for him to draw the linen over her head. He drops his gaze to take in the full length of her, the candlelight casting a warm, nearly holy glow to the pale expanse of perfect skin marred only by the angry grooves left by her stays.

He cups one of her breasts, rolling her pert nipple with his thumb, smiling as her stomach hollows with her drawn breath. 

“They’re the color of your lips,” he says with an insolent smirk.

She blushes furiously, her jaw firming, an expression on her face as if she’s about to give him a particularly brutal opinion.

He leans forward, rising on the balls of his feet to kiss her. She fumbles, stumbling slightly, mouth closing tightly in shock. He cups her cheek with his other hand, brushing softly at her jaw, sliding his hand from her breast to her waist and pulling her close enough for their bodies to press together fully. Slowly, she softens to him, her chest rising and falling rapidly against his own even as her mouth softens and she allows his tongue to slip between her lips. 

Jaime walks her back toward the bed, coaxing her tongue into his mouth, taking one of her hands and encouraging her to touch him, _aching_ for her to touch him _anywhere_. When her knees hit the back of the bed, he guides her to sit and then recline, kissing his way from her lips, down her jaw, to her neck and lower. He licks her nipples, sucking them into his mouth. She makes a shocked, pleased noise. 

“Oh my,” she says breathlessly. 

He continues, smiling to himself, kissing over her pale belly, heart pounding as he nears the crux of her thighs, desperate to taste the slick heat of her arousal. 

“What are you doing?” she asks tremulously as he gently guides her legs apart. 

“Trust me,” Jaime assures her. “I won’t lead you astray.”

Haltingly, slowly, she parts her legs as he sinks to his knees. He can smell her, already wet and ready for his mouth.

“Mmm,” Jaime hums. His breath against her skin makes her twitch. “Lovely.”

She truly is beautiful; a thatch of goldenrod curls surrounding her sweetly flushed quim. 

“Can we not simply proceed?” Brienne asks tightly. 

Jaime glances up to find her blushing furiously beneath the hand pressed firmly over her eyes. He’s thankful she can’t see the smile on his face. 

“We are proceeding,” he says, pushing his palm against the inside of her thigh to ground her. 

“I don’t think this is necessary,” she says, mouth twisting in frustration. 

“With all due respect, I believe you may wish to defer to my greater experience in these matters.” 

“And I believe that I know enough of these matters to say that this is not—not…”

“Brienne, look at me.” 

“I cannot.” 

“Brienne.” 

He waits for a moment, sighs, and then pinches the delicate skin of her thigh. It’s not a hard enough pinch to bruise, but it’s certainly hard enough to draw an angry yelp and a glare. That she finds him smirking with satisfaction seems to annoy her enough she doesn’t immediately hide her face again. 

“Do you know why so many women whisper about the pain of their first bedding?” Jaime asks.

Brienne, unbelievably, turns an even darker shade of pink. “No.” 

“It’s because they’ve been told that it must be,” he says. “That they should lie back and close their eyes and pray to The Maiden that their husband finishes quickly. It may seem cocksure of me, but I promise you, if you follow me, you shan’t leave my bed with the same misapprehension.” 

The breath she releases shudders out of her and he can feel the same tremble in the flesh beneath his hands. He palms her cunt, waiting until the fluttering stops before he speaks again. “Have you ever touched yourself?” His breath deepens, his blood heating in his veins at the sight of her parted lips and expression that’s caught between frightened and aroused. 

“Yes,” she says tremulously.

“Did you bring yourself to climax?” he asks rocking the heel of his palm against the apex of her cunt.

She sucks in a breath. “I don’t know.”

“Oh,” he says with a smirk. “You would know.”

She looks at him curiously. He cups her buttocks with his hands and tilts her toward his mouth. “Keep your eyes on me,” he tells her, firmly enough it’s almost a command. 

She nods, her chest rising and falling as if she’s run a mile, but she doesn’t close her eyes. He doesn’t go gently, doesn’t tease or soothe her, he buries his mouth against her cunt, savoring the wet heat of her with a deep moan. Her shocked whimper at the first touch of his lips sends lightning coursing through his body.

He’s the first to close his eyes, reveling in the startled gasps and moans from Brienne as he savors the taste of her, the fresh musk of her arousal flooding his senses. She shifts, her hips canting up in tiny aborted thrusts. He pulls her closer and lifts his mouth away. 

Brienne’s eyelids flutter open, the expression on her face dazed when she looks at him. She licks her lips when he chases the taste of her off of his own. 

“Hold onto me,” he says, his voice already deep and husky. “Your hand in my hair, your legs around my shoulders. Move with my mouth. You needn’t lie still and demure. I would rather you didn’t.” He leans over her until they’re face-to-face. “Be loud,” he says and then kisses her deeply, pleased that she doesn’t recoil from the taste of herself on his tongue. 

He goes back to kneeling and returns to pleasuring her in earnest. 

When she comes, she all but screams, pulling his face to her cunt and clamping her thighs against his head as she rides out her pleasure in stuttering thrusts. She calms and releases him.

He moves over her, his cock settling against her as he kisses a trail from her breast up her neck over her jaw and to her mouth, slipping his tongue along her own, groaning when she returns the embrace just a desperately. One of her legs slowly curls around his, her hands coming to rest on his sides. 

She breaks the kiss to whisper, “I want to see you.”

“Fuck.” He presses his forehead to her neck. 

He levers himself up and off the bed to stand between her legs. She follows him, leaning up into a seated position and scooting to the edge of the bed, so close he can feel the heat of her. He grips the collar of his shirt to pull it over his head, tossing it into the corner. She reaches for him, her fingertips barely brushing the hair on his chest. He grabs her wrist when she traces over the muscles of his abdomen with a fingernail.

Brienne looks up to meet his eyes, startled. 

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. 

He shakes his head and takes her hand instead, pressing it flat to his stomach. “I’d rather not lose my composure.”

“Oh,” she says quietly, glancing down again, her lips parting softly when she sees the state of his cock tenting the front of his trousers. 

“ _Fuck_.” 

She blinks up at him at the expletive. He takes a step back, making her brow wrinkle as she worries at her bottom lip with her teeth. He may die tonight, but he’s imagined much worse ways to go. 

“It’s been a long time,” he explains, voice strained, “since I was with a woman. If I’m not mindful, I’m afraid I’ll lose my head and leave you with a very poor impression of myself and the act.” 

He reaches for the buttons at his waist, undoing them both before releasing the ones holding up the placket. He shoves the trousers down and steps out of them, returning to stand between Brienne’s legs once more.

“May I?” she asks gazing up at him, her eyes somehow even bluer against the black of her pupils in the candlelight. 

“Yes,” he says, drawing a deep breath as she tentatively reaches for him. 

The first touch of her cool hand against his heated flesh shudders down his spine. She touches him lightly, so much so it’s almost ticklish. She startles when he settles his hand over her own, but all he does is guide her to grip him, showing her how firmly to hold, how to stroke him in a rhythm that won’t quite tip him over the edge. 

She seems entranced, fixated on the glide of their hands over his cock, biting at her lower lip in concentration as she learns him. He closes his eyes, hoping that if he shuts out the look on her face and her lips swollen from her own teeth and his, it will calm the tension he feels coiling low in his gut and groin. 

When she stops, he looks down at her to find her eyes already turned to his face. 

“Should I?” she asks hesitantly. 

“Should you what?” he asks, arousal clouding his mind. 

“You--” she swallows, lips trembling, “you used your mouth on me. Is that how it’s done? I’m afraid I don’t know how.”

“Gods.” He takes deep breaths until he feels as if he can speak without saying something terribly foolish. “No,” he says. “That’s not how it must be done. In fact--” it’s his turn to release an uneven breath, “--if you still wish for me to show you what’s to be expected of the marriage bed, it would be best if you didn’t.” 

“I do,” she says. “I want you to show me what it could be.”

He can’t resist the urge to cup her cheek, tracing the line of her blush along her cheekbone with a soft smile. 

“Lie back,” he says. 

She does. He watches the faint trembling throughout her body as she carefully places herself against the pillows. He wishes this was a wedding night or that, at least, he could give her a better room, sumptuous, a large bed, a soft mattress and plush pillows. Something so much better than a tiny hole-in-the-wall, cramped room in a disrepute lodging house with threadbare sheets and flat pillows. She deserves better. 

At least, he knows, he can make this good for her. Better than some titled man who only wants her for her money and lands, who will douse the lamps, who won’t appreciate her strength and unique beauty. Some weak-spined, unworthy man that won’t understand the power of her eyes as he moves within her. 

He kisses her desperately, thankful that she opens her mouth to him without hesitation, welcome his tongue and stroking it with her own. Slowly, he moves his hand up her thigh, smiling against her mouth when she opens her legs easily, allowing him to slide his fingers through the wetness he finds. She arches her neck, gasping and whimpering when he circles her clit, moving in time with his rhythm. 

He slides half on top of her, pressing open-mouthed kisses down her neck and slipping two fingers inside her. 

“Oh, _gods_.” She keens and curves in on herself as he curls his fingers, waiting for her to relax before he thrusts them in and out, accustoming her to the feeling. 

When he finally shifts on top of her, she doesn’t hesitate to allow him between her legs, doesn’t flinch when his cock settles against her. He braces on one hand, tracing a circle around one nipple before taking the other in his mouth, scraping his teeth along it. She bucks against him in response. He leans up to kiss her, cupping her cheek. 

He pulls away and waits for her to look at him, a dazed expression in her eyes. 

“Are you ready?” he asks, voice thick and hoarse. 

She nods. “Yes,” she says, just as raspy.

He reaches between them and guides his cock into place, pressing into her slowly, watching carefully as her mouth and eyes tense. 

“Breathe,” he tells her, kissing her jaw. “I know it’s odd, but it helps if you can relax.” 

He draws deep breaths, hoping she’ll follow him. She does in fits and starts, the first breaths stuttering and short as she breathes through her nerves. He pushes in shallow thrusts until finally he’s gripped tightly by her quim.

“Oh gods, Brienne.” He presses his forehead between her breasts, shifting rather than thrusting, savoring the wet heat of her. 

Her moans as he begins to thrust in earnest are short, sharp little noises, not quite pleasure, but not quite pain either. If anything, they’re unsure, almost confused. He moves his mouth back to her breasts, sucking and licking her nipples until they’re raised, sensitive peaks again, until she grips the back of his head to hold him in place. 

He coaxes her to wrap a leg around his hip, making it easier for him to reach between them to set his fingers against her clit again, rubbing her slowly. 

Finally, finally, _finally_ , when he’s about to lose hope, she moves with him, her hips rising to meet his own, her leg holding onto his, pulling him in harder. Her halted, short moans move into her chest, deeper and shifting into true pleasure, her arms winding around him, her blunt nails digging into the slick skin of his back. 

He loses himself in it, the hot, sweaty meeting of their bodies over and over again. It shocks him when she comes, clenching around his cock, crying out and clutching him so tightly it nearly _hurts_ his ribs.

He pulls out of her as quickly as he can, spilling on the sheets and her thighs, breathing heavily from the shock of his orgasm and the near-miss of coming inside her. 

He heaves himself off of her, staring at the dank ceiling and trying to catch his breath. 

“Seven hells,” Brienne murmurs next to him.

He laughs, giddy with the joy of climax. “I could not agree more.”

He turns his head on the pillow to her. She does the same looking away from the ceiling to meet his eyes. Her hair sticks to her temples in damp curls, her cheeks are flushed from exertion and there’s a look of pure shock on her face. 

“Is it always that way?” she asks wondrously.

“No,” he says. “No, it’s not always that remarkable. Not nearly.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to brynnmck for looking this over for me and being SO encouraging of this project!
> 
> Thank you to kiraziwrites and Roccolinde for responding to my VALIDATE ME requests!
> 
> Title is from Sara Bareilles' I Choose You


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